


Cherish Gifts Honestly Given

by S_Pyo



Series: Sherlock & John Are Probably Magical [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Crossover, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Misunderstandings, Other, POV Alternating, Possessive Behavior, Potterlock, Scheming, Slice of Life, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Pyo/pseuds/S_Pyo
Summary: John spends his first summer, and birthday, as a wizard with Sherlock.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Sherlock & John Are Probably Magical [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749268
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	1. To Be Empty

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back. Hopefully you’ve read and enjoyed the first part of their tale but if not then I highly recommend reading that first or venturing to find another story as these chapters rely heavily upon your knowledge of the previous installment. I believe that is the nature of a continuation. 
> 
> As before: No Beta and I own nothing of J.K.Rowling’s or Sherlock but if you encounter something non-canonical that is completely my own fault. 
> 
> This one is shorter than the last but, then again, a summer's transitory is it not?
> 
> Please enjoy!

“I can’t believe I survived Darts. Thought I’d have to turn in my wand by the end of the practical.”

John didn’t turn away from the window of their train compartment as he continued to thumb the edges of the letter in his pocket.

“You’ve always done it well enough in both Darts  _ and  _ Charms, Mike.”

“Casting a spell in a room is a far cry harder than casting it in the Forbidden Forest to ward off a Gytrash, Molly.”

“Maybe but we’re wizards; what’ll the world do if we can’t even protect ourselves from magical threats?”

Mike groaned, “John, help me out here, mate, tell this half-blood it's different for us Muggle-borns.”

Molly’s squeaking huff pulled the rest of John’s attention away from the rushing scenery, “Molly’s right.”

“Bah! Why’d I ask you?” Mike crossed his arms and grumbled, “Professor’s pet: the both of ya’.” 

Molly’s voice softened, “You just need to have more confidence-”

“Says the girl who only makes friends with the school’s ghosts,” Mike snapped at her.

Molly recoiled from the barbed comment and John glared at Mike, “And what does that make  _ you _ , eh? There’s no need for that.”

Mike’s anger receded a bit as he saw Molly stare at her hands as they laid limp on her lap but, being the absolute berk that he was, he didn’t say another word before turning to face the window.

John knew  _ why  _ Mike was so on edge: he was the only one of them that was going to be forced to return to a fully Muggle lifestyle once he met back up with his parents. Mike would have to leave behind every bit of the magical world he actively tried drowning himself in by studying ahead in the common rooms and looking up extra things in the library during his free time. If things hadn’t turned out so horribly wrong when he received his Letter, John might’ve had the same gloomy outlook about heading home as Mike.

They get told they’re part of this fantastical world where magic and wizards and monsters are real, spend a whole year there learning as much as they could about it and then get told of some laws about underage magic in their last days that says if they mess up and use any they get expelled.

And the professors had  _ still  _ assigned them schoolwork over the summer.

Mike  _ should  _ be mad at John, not Molly, considering Mike thought he was going to return to Muggle parents who were right next door to the Pure-blood Holmes family where magic was probably as reliable as tea. Even Molly wasn’t going to be in that sort of magical home-life and  _ she  _ was the one with a witch for a mum.

John  _ should  _ feel guilty neither of his friends know he was adopted by another family over Christmas but he isn’t. He hasn’t thought of much else aside from doing as well as he can in classes in an effort to make Sherlock’s parents not regret their decision to take him in. Since the news, the adoption had steadily gone from being an embarrassing warmth to an intimidating weight in his stomach and John just couldn’t be bothered to care how Molly and Mike felt about being lied to.

Sherlock had mentioned how powerful his family is (Ministry and government officials and whatnot) but it wasn’t until  _ after  _ he received the second letter that John realized  _ how  _ much. The way he was treated at school before and after the letter was so jarring that, if John hadn’t known better, he would have said he had been transported to another dimension.

And with how little John knew about the wizarding world, John wasn’t comfortable eliminating that possibility entirely.

Once Sherlock left, Abby hadn’t been anywhere near the only one to decide to take advantage of John’s solitary state. Hufflepuff had been supportive, in a ‘we’re in this together’ sort of way, but Mike and Molly had been the only ones to  _ stick  _ with him regardless of what was happening to him. Greg did what he could, when he could, and John knew there were several students from the other houses that owed a substantial amount of their detentions to him.

The professors had been a mixed bag of mostly decent, if demanding, wizards who really just treated every one of them like they were the future and would not tolerate a student’s lack of ‘getting it.’ Holston had been the only one openly hostile towards him but John really couldn’t blame him. Sherlock had  _ not  _ been nice in their first Darts class and John had broken his step-son’s hand so John had accepted the mockery from failures and the indifference of success equally. Slughorn had been the only odd one of the lot; he seemed to have a fixation on Sherlock but John couldn’t help responding positively to the Potions Professor because Slughorn was the only one in the school with anything nice to say about his friend.

Then, almost immediately after he received that second letter and the students had returned from their holiday, John found himself left alone. Even Holston had resoundingly backed off and kept his eyes smoldering instead of outright igniting whenever they inadvertently shared a gaze. Slughorn’s interest also changed to include John and he had a hard time enjoying the attention once he learned more about The Slug Club from the older Hufflepuffs.

And wasn’t  _ that  _ unsettling? John hadn’t  _ told  _ anyone anything and yet it seemed everyone who needed to know  _ knew  _ he was now the adopted son of the Holmes family. 

John patted the space of the seat beside him, “C’mere, Molly, if that berk doesn’t want your company I do.”

Mike’s head snapped around and glared at him before paling as Molly sniffled and rose to sit on John’s side of their compartment. Mike’s hands tightened on his knees, “I’m not a berk! I never said I didn’t want her company-”

“And yet you didn’t say one word of sorry? Yeah, you’re right mate, you aren’t a berk; you’re a bloody  _ wanker _ .” John threw his arm over Molly’s slumped frame without breaking eye-contact with Mike, “It isn’t her fault she has a witch for a mum any more than it's your fault you have a Muggle one. So what if you don’t get to use your wand for a few months? If you paid half as much attention to McGonagall during our send-off as you did the professors in class you’d know this whole no-magic thing is to get us used to  _ not using magic _ while we’re out in the Muggle world.” Mike visibly deflated but John wasn’t going to let him off so easily for being rude to Molly; they were supposed to be friends. John  _ knew  _ they were better friends than that, Mike was just being a selfish twit. “She has to follow the same rules as us: no magic. Just because her mum’s a witch doesn’t mean she is anymore free to break the rules than you are.”

“But…” Mike looked stricken, fighting between the childish pride of a boy who wanted his behavior validated and the shameful realization that he had hurt his friend for it.

“Go on, finish that thought,” John threatened.

The foolish pride won: “Oh, so you’re on her side now? I suppose you’re hardly a  _ true  _ Muggle-born now that you’ve got a Pure-blood for a friend who your Muggle parents will let you go and hang out with whenever-”

John was up and standing in front of Mike in an instant, “ _ Don’t _ .” John felt a tug on his wrist and, realizing it was Molly’s hand, relaxed the fist that had been steadily tightening before he continued,”My parents, my  _ Muggle  _ parents, beat me and threw me out after I got my letter.” Mike’s face turned a pale green and John relished it more than he probably should have considering he was revealing the lie he and Sherlock had told since the first time they’d met on their shared boat, “If you only want friends who have Muggles for parents then you best makeup with Molly because at least one of hers is.” John watched as Mike’s fear turned to confusion, “Oh, didn’t you hear? I thought the whole school knew by now. You must be deaf  _ and  _ stupid.” Molly’s hand dropped from his wrist. “Sherlock’s Pure-blooded parents  _ adopted  _ me and you must’ve rounded the bend  _ twice  _ if you think I want to be friends with a boy who thinks Muggle parents are so much more  _ understanding  _ than wizards just because you were told to hold off from magic for a few months.”

Don’t you dare think Molly’s mum is any less than either of yours when she _gave up_ _her magic_ to be with the man she loved. _Loves_ ,” John scraped his bottom lip between his teeth as he barked the last word at the round boy. “Every witch and wizard I’ve seen has shown more love for their families than I’ve seen from _my_ Muggle one.” John straightened up, realizing he had begun to loom over Mike, “Even if Professor Holston hates his step-son, he loves his wife enough to not leave the boy bloodied and alone.” Mike averted his gaze and John would have been proud of Mike for keeping his head up for as hard as John had been going at him but he needed Mike to get over himself and make up with Molly. Mike was supposed to be a better friend to Molly than John. John _couldn’t_ be the friend Molly deserved because he would never be able to spare enough of himself to give her that friendship. He had already given everything to Sherlock.

“I’m going to the loo.” John winced as he slid the glass-pane door a bit harder than he should have. 

He’ll mend it when he gets back.

**_~~*~~_ **

Getting off the train at Platform 9 ¾ was far more stressful than John had planned.

John forgot how much of a pain his trunk was to get down from the rack above his seat since Sherlock wasn’t here to magic it off for him. At least Mike and Molly weren’t fairing much better with their own.

They had managed to make up while John took longer ‘going to the loo’ than anyone would consider healthy. But neither of them mentioned it as whatever Mike had done to make Molly forgive him had her returned to his side of the compartment as they shared a conversation he hadn’t been around to see start.

Molly’s shy smile and small nod of thanks before she trailed quickly after Mike into the hallway had left John alone and nervous because he had gone against his better judgement and taken a look out the window onto the platform. He saw it full to bursting with anxious parents, still-jealous siblings and the returning children but hadn’t seen even a single dark curl of his friend.

Don’t be an idiot, John told himself. Obviously Sherlock wouldn’t be here waiting. Don’t you remember how he acted the first time you saw him? He didn’t spend more than twenty seconds on the platform before he was inside the train and away from everyone. John nodded, right: too many people around for Sherlock to wait for him here so he must be outside the station where it isn’t so cramped and there's probably more places for him to be away from others. John squeezed himself into a spot after a couple of older Ravenclaws and made his way off the train

“John Watson?”

John stopped, having taken barely five steps towards the stone archway leading to King’s Station proper, when he heard his name called out in a clear and smooth female voice. He turned to see a blonde woman who was far too young to be his mum, let alone Sherlock’s, and boy was she pretty in her black bespoke suit and ruffled blouse.

She wasn’t smiling at him but she did raise her perfect eyebrows when he only stared at her, “I’m Mr. Holmes’ personal assistant; I’m to bring you home.”

John began to crane his head and neck around her to try and spot his friend. “Is Sherlock-”

Not even a blink, “He’s waiting for you in the car.” Her eyes flicked to the trunk he had propped against him, “Is that everything?”

John looked at his second-hand trunk, “Yeah, I-” The woman hadn’t even bothered to wait for him to finish before she was using legs far longer than John’s to head for the 9 ¾ passageway. John hurried after her, pulling along his trunk, wishing wizards weren't so arrogant and would add wheels to their bloody luggage.   
  


He was proud of himself for not hesitating too long before running headfirst into the stone wall but when he found himself on the other side he was suddenly disoriented. There was a loss of something that he could only vaguely feel from the handle of his trunk and the humming strum of his wand tucked up into his sleeve. The air seemed lesser somehow. Muted and vacant and he felt  _ cold _ despite his jumper and the mild summer evening.

Magic. The Magic was  _ gone _ . There wasn’t anything powerfully magical around him and it was only  _ now  _ that John realized he had spent the better part of a year surrounded by it in such a way that he had probably been suffocating on it.

He spotted the woman waiting for him at the main junction between the lines that would lead them out of the station and hid his discomfort with a small shiver before rushing to catch up. John almost blurted a sorry to her but she hadn’t waited for him to actually get to her before she started off again without a single change in stride. John didn’t understand how a woman could move in those shoes and he wished she broke one so she would just slow down some. John was so focused on not losing track of her among the other people leaving the station before it closed that he missed when they exited the building.

Though, in all honesty, it was more likely the sight of a pale boy leaning against the side of a blacked-out car that erased his awareness of anything else around him.

“Sherlock!” Dark curls jerked, their eyes met and the next thing John knew his head was on Sherlock’s shoulder as he attempted to eliminate the very air between them, “I’ve missed you.”

John felt a shuddering breath come from the body tense in his arms. “What have I told you about making me repeat myself?” A hand came to rest at the nape of John’s neck, “I will never abandon you, brother.”


	2. And Made Full

There were only two reasons Sherlock could think of as to why John had forgiven him for what he had done on their last day together: the adoption or John truly was a Hufflepuff.

Sherlock didn’t know why he preferred if it was the latter.

Sherlock had made the deal with Father to give John what he wanted. Thanks to him, John now had a family that would, at the very least, call him their own for as long as it took for Sherlock to take John and run away. Worst case was John would be treated too well and wouldn’t want to leave, and Sherlock  _ knew  _ that was what Father was going to try and do. 

Sherlock had made a choice, a horribly bad one in the long run, by openly admitting to Father how much John meant to him. How much he was willing to give up and submit to in order to keep John by his side. But it was either that or risk losing John forever and, if he was honest with himself, Sherlock would continue to make that choice until he could get them both out. 

Because he  _ could  _ get out and he  _ would  _ bring John with him when he did.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock met John’s eyes in the window, “John.”

“Are you coming back to school?”

John would want him to and Father would want to try to keep John disgustingly happy. “Yes.”

He watched John fidget, “Would you have to repeat the year?”

Sherlock scoffed but was smirking, “No. Not every wizard family brings their children to a school for their lessons. Some families don’t have a wizarding school in their country or are too concerned with their privacy to bother. Homeschooling is encouraged and available for families that do not wish to bring their children to an institute. Correspondence courses are offered to ensure equal footing on knowledge bases and testing is proctored by the Ministry’s Education Board making is as valid as if they had taken their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts should a student’s goal be to end up working for the Ministry.”

John made a noise of understanding, “You passed every class, then?”

Sherlock turned to John, “You know the answer to that.”

John chuckled while lowering his head and Sherlock saw that nervous twitch of the fingers on his lap. “Right, ‘course, silly of me to ever think you wouldn’t get top marks.” Sherlock continued to stare at him and once the silence became too much for John to handle he finally gave what Sherlock wanted: eye contact.

_ Ah. _

Sherlock smiled, genuine but small, “Show me your results, John.”

John beamed.

**_~~*~~_ **

If John wasn’t such an idiot none of this would have happened. If he had just remembered to get his (Sherlock’s) briefcase out of the trunk before they left the station then Sherlock wouldn’t have had to delve into John’s mind to  _ see  _ his results.

_ “You might lie to me John. We can’t have you hiding the fact you received such a low score in History of Magic.” _

Sherlock continued to stare out of the window with his arms folded in front and without even bothering to have his eyes open to accidentally meet John’s in its reflection. Sherlock wasn’t sleeping, his bobbing knee was a dead give away, and John could only sigh and mimic with his own pitiful gaze out the window.

Wait, no, that’s not true. It would have happened, eventually. Most likely when they returned to Hogwarts and Sherlock was with him when John met back up with Molly and Mike. If not here it would have been there; then.

_ “You made...  _ friends _.” _

_ “Who, Mike and Molly? Oh, yeah, I suppose-” _

_ “Trying to move on?” _

_ “From what… You?” _

_ “Did I  _ ruin  _ your plan to Obliviate yourself of me by having Father adopt you?” _

_ “What? No. Sherlock, I could never forget you-” _

_ “Only replace me.” _

_ “I didn’t-  _ You _ left  _ me _!” _

_ “ _ I _ had to!” _

_ “You said you would never abandon me, Sherlock! Your words- you gave me your  _ word _.” _

_ “I  _ hurt  _ you-” _

_ “And I  _ forgave  _ you.” _

Sherlock hadn’t looked at him or said a word since and John really didn’t know how to make him do either. Sherlock always seemed to know just what to say to get people to pay attention to him; to get them to do what he wanted. John didn’t know how to do that but John didn’t  _ want  _ to know how to do it to anyone other than Sherlock.

John balled his hands into fists on his lap. “I needed someone Sherlock. After you left- Why am I even bothering  _ telling  _ you? If you know Mike and Molly then you know how my life was at Hogwarts after you ran away.” John glared at Sherlock, “You  _ saw  _ it.”

Sherlock only pulled his shoulders higher up around his head and John saw red. He gripped and spun Sherlock around and wanted to scream because Sherlock still wouldn’t just open his eyes and  _ look at him _ . “Look at me, Sherlock. Look at me and tell me that I can’t have friends if they aren’t you and I will clobber you into this posh seat.”

“You’re  _ my  _ only friend.”

John’s stomach twisted but he kept his anger lit, “That’s not my fault. Why is it my fault? Why do you have to  _ make  _ it my fault just because I didn’t want to be alone when you left me to the wolves?”

Sherlock finally opened his eyes. Not a lot, only a sliver of ice was visible under his lashes, and it wasn’t directed at John’s own but at least Sherlock was  _ looking _ . “I was going to come back-”

“ _ Don’t _ .” John growled at him, “I’m not like you Sherlock, I’m not a mind reader and I’m not as clever as you are. If you don't tell me what’s going on I won’t  _ know _ .” John released his hold on Sherlock’s arms and forced himself back to his side of the backseat. “I thought you were ashamed of me. I thought you were mad at me because I let Abby and that Slytherin get to me and take it out on you.” John swallowed hard and Sherlock must’ve heard it because his eyes were wide and fixed onto his own. “I was afraid that they were right. That I wasn’t good enough to be a wizard; to be next to you. And, in my mind, what they said became true because you  _ had  _ decided I wasn’t worth it to stay. That, even with all your help in class, I wasn’t able to stand up for myself against another witch or wizard without you there beside me and so I must not be even worth the bother for you to  _ try  _ anymore.”

Sherlock kept silent, mercifully, and John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s as he continued, “I was miserable, Sherlock. No family waiting for me at the end of the year, no friends to be with during it, no one to care about anything that I did or didn’t do and so I made myself  _ hate _ because it was the only thing I could to force myself to keep going while I focused on the only thing I could think of that gave me even the tiniest amount of hope.” John watched as Sherlock inhaled through his nose, “You.”

“John-”

“Quiet, Sherlock, I’m not done.” John sighed, “I know you’re probably, like, three bloody sentences ahead of me but, just, let me finish. Please?” Sherlock’s lips had disappeared between his teeth and he nodded without breaking eye-contact. “I did my best; my absolute  _ best _ . I tried everything and anything I could to succeed in each one of my classes before the midterm and when I got my scores back and saw how well I did and that you still hadn’t come back I-” John’s throat tightened and he coughed to clear it. “I thought about quitting. Just say sod it all and  _ give up _ . Who cares if I continued on after being nearly killed by my father. Who cares if I took a shot in the dark and approached a stranger on the train here in order to make a friend? Who cares if I got A’s, E’s and O’s in class despite everyone else being so _ sure  _ I would fail if the person I was doing it for wasn’t around?” 

Sherlock’s mouth wavered but he nodded and John continued after Sherlock managed to get his face back under control, “And then it was the Holidays and I had no one around to force me to stay angry to get through the day and it vanished before I could do anything to stop it. I couldn’t even  _ remember  _ how to feel hate or anger or anything anymore once it was gone and the school was empty and so I was just  _ lost _ , Sherlock. I looked for anything to bring back that hope I was losing sight of because it seemed like no matter what I ended up doing, nothing was going to bring you back to me.”

John looked away, exhaling an unsteady breath, “Then McGonagall gave me the letter-”

Sherlock was leaning towards him, somehow finding the speed and grace necessary to shrink the distance between them in one fluid motion, “John, you must believe me when I say I wanted nothing more than to _give you_ _that letter myself_ but-”

“Yes, I know you wanted to, Sherlock.” “the Ministry has their idiotic rules and- Oh.”

Sherlock paused as John made their connection again, “I may not have had my first birthday as a wizard but I’ve seen my fair share of official letters, so I get it.” Sherlock didn't look all the way convinced, if that stress line between his brows was any indication and John sighed, “Look, at the time, I was so… when I realized you hadn’t forgotten me, that you had kept your word, I just wanted you  _ there  _ with me. My idiot self couldn’t imagine you just  _ being  _ in the room so I wished McGonagall was you.”

Sherlock only stared at him, not uttering a peep and John didn’t know where to go from there. Everything afterward had been a mad dash to finish the year as strong and as brilliantly as he could. Study, practice, fail, practice and succeed on repeat. And He honestly barely recalled anything that wasn’t related to the textbooks he fell asleep on at the desk in his room. 

Probably time to get back to the main point of that whole row then. “You’re not going to stop me from making friends, Sherlock. You can’t because it isn’t  _ fair _ .” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John glared right back, “And I won’t stop you from making as many friends as you want either because it doesn’t matter how many you or I have. We’re family now, Sherlock. I’ll be the best brother you’ve ever had because a  _ good  _ family will never be anything but the best towards each other.”

Sherlock stared at him a little while longer before nodding, “You are my brother as I am yours; there will never be another who could take your place so long as no one takes mine.”

John snorted and shook his head, “So which one of us is the older brother?”

**_~~*~~_ **

Constance had made their ride smooth and quick but John had still managed to nod off on the way to the estate. Sherlock was too busy enjoying the sound of John’s sleepy breathing and the feel of John’s blonde hair tickling his neck to care whether or not the trip was any less efficient so long as John wasn’t disturbed. But Father demanded the best from those that obeyed him and Ms. Reedwind wasn’t going to cater to Sherlock’s whims if they might jeopardize that performance and so Sherlock found another reason to hate his father.

Sherlock felt John’s wandhand twitch and smiled ruefully as Constance pressed a button on the rear-view to open the gates in front of them.

_ It begins. _

Sherlock nudged John’s head with a slight shift of the shoulder the blonde was using as a pillow, “Wake-up, John, we’re home.”


	3. Misguided

John struggled with lifting his trunk out of the car boot.  _ Don’t scuff the paint, don’t ding the bumper, don't scrape the-  _ Sherlock reached past him and dragged the trunk up along the lip of the boot, grinding the surfaces together to create a sound that had all the color drain from John’s face. “Sherlock! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping,” Sherlock let the trunk drop to the floor.

John looked at the long black streak on his luggage. His eyes bulged, “You just took the paint right off the car with my bloody trunk!”

“Wizard, John.”

“What the hell’s that got to do with-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Mending Charm, John. Remember?”

“We aren’t supposed to  _ do  _ magic outside of school, Sherlock.” John hissed, “ _ Remember? _ ”

“Spare me. The Trace was removed from you the moment you passed through the gate of the property.” Sherlock slammed the boot and flicked his wand at John’s trunk. It floated several inches off the ground and followed Sherlock as he headed for the front door. John stared at his floating trunk with his hands fisted at his sides as he stomped after him.

John probably should have been more impressed with the Holmes’ Manor, there really was no other word  _ big  _ enough to describe it but, considering he had been living in a literal castle just yesterday, he was somewhat less in awe of it than he might’ve been a year prior. Honestly, he hadn’t expected anything less from how Sherlock acted, dressed and spoke. The assistant and car were also a dead give away.

That didn’t make him any less nervous to meet his new parents, though.

The assistant stopped at the door, pressing the tip of her wand to the lock before stepping aside as the door swung open inward.

“I trust there were no complications?”

“None, sir.”

“Splendid.”

John stared at the man standing at the threshold of the house and felt a fresh wave of nervous squirming in his stomach. Sharper eyes than Sherlock's iced-blue with skin a pale cream that seemed tightly stretched over his bones creating an angular look and John had to stop himself from trying to stare at the man’s teeth. His hair was different, an auburn that was so meticulously styled for this late in the night John didn’t even want to think about how much effort the man used to have it last all day. And the way he was dressed and held himself screamed of a confidence that even Sherlock couldn’t hold a candle to.

Christ, he was not prepared for this.

John’s ascent after Sherlock was stiff and unnatural as he tried to mimic how Sherlock was climbing them. John was desperately trying to not stand out as much as he knew his rumpled blonde hair, scuffed shoes and previously oatmeal jumper made him in the face of all the bespoke evening wear.

The man turned his attention to his brother, “Welcome home, son.”

John watched as Sherlock didn’t so much as look at the man before leading John’s trunk through the door past him, “Father.” Sherlock's dead tone caught John by surprise and only ratcheted John’s tension to the point that he was nearly unable to breathe.

If Sherlock is that formal to his own father then what was  _ he  _ supposed to do? What did Mum say about the proper way to greet someone? John had only met his dad’s boss once, at a company party, and he had been eight, and he was pretty sure he had done something wrong because he remembers, vividly now, how nearly choking his dad’s hand had been on the back of his neck.

“And you must be John.”

John looked up, meeting the man’s eyes, straightening his back as he threw out his hand, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Sir.”

The man’s laugh was deep and his smile had just the right amount of teeth. “Call me Rory,” his hand fully encased John’s, “though, I must confess, I’m hoping for ‘Father’ sometime in the future.”

John could only nod as their hands separated.

Rory’s other hand settled onto John’s shoulder, ushering him inside; neither his eyes nor smile leaving John’s, “That will be all for tonight, Constance.” The assistant bowed and closed the door behind them and Rory wasted no time leading John after Sherlock up the staircase on the right. “Now, then, John: would you like to see your room?”

**_~~*~~_ **

Expecting John to be able to see through Father’s act was like expecting leprechaun gold to get past a goblin. So what if he had a walk-in full of new clothes? So what if he’d been promised a trip to Diagon Alley for new school supplies? So what if Father had praised him for his, mostly, Outstanding scores? So what if Father had laughed at his idiotic jokes? So what if Father wished John a good night? So what if Father had called John by name? John was still an idiot. 

Behind him, John sighed, “Blimey, Sherlock, I knew you were well off but...”

“Wizards trade in Gold and Silver, John. It’s not our fault Muggles use paper.” Sherlock mumbled while still recreating John’s index from school. It wouldn’t be so tedious if the dimensions of the drawers weren’t so different.

Sherlock heard the rustling of the duvet and sheets. “I best be sure not to let it go to my head, being the son-”

Sherlock whirled on him and hissed “ _ You are not his son.” _

It took John a moment before he responded, “In case you’ve forgotten, Sherlock, we’re brothers-”

Sherlock shoved the drawer closed with a firm thunk, “You’re  _ my  _ brother but not  _ his  _ son.”

John recoiled and narrowed his eyes at him, “That doesn’t even make any sense. I can’t be your brother without being his son-”

Sherlock bristled, “This is not a Phoenix and ash situation, John. You’re nothing to him. He doesn't want you; he doesn't  _ deserve  _ you. _ I  _ want you. _ I _ need you.” Sherlock advanced on him, “That makes you  _ mine _ ; not Father’s.”

John stood from the bed, his voice rising, “You don’t own me, Sherlock. I’m not a  _ thing _ .”

“ _ Semantics _ !” Sherlock’s voice matching John’s. “Father only took you in because of me; he never  _ wanted  _ you-”

John’s fist connected with the side of his face with enough force Sherlock found himself on the floor before he registered the pain. Sherlock brought the hand not bracing himself off the floor to his face as he turned to blink at John standing over him. The blonde was heaving and red in-the-face and Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to speak. 

“Get out.”

Sherlock shifted onto his knees “John-” John’s face scrunched up and he reached down to pull Sherlock to his feet. “John,” John didn’t turn to face him while he dragged Sherlock to the door. “Listen to me,” John wrenched the door open and shoved Sherlock into the hall. “Father is not someone who you can afford to trust.”

John glared at him, “Oh, but you are? Did you have to give up your Christmas presents for the next five years so dad could give you your own  _ pet  _ brother?”

“That’s not-”

John snarled at him, “Shut up! I’m not your toy, I’m  _ not  _ your dog, I’m not  _ yours  _ Sherlock! No one owns me. I’m me. I’m mine.”

Sherlock pushed against the door, trying to move past John and get back into the room, “No, you’re missing half of the equation John; you’ll never get to the right answer if you only see part of the problem!”

John let go of the door and Sherlock had a moment of relief at the thought that John was going to let him in but then he felt both of John’s hands on his chest just before he was shoved with enough force that he fell back into the wall on the other side of the hall. Sherlock blinked, dazed, and looked up to meet John’s dark eyes.

“The only problem I see, Sherlock, is you.” And, with a scathing look, John slammed the door.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, “John! Brother-” At the sound of the lock sliding into place Sherlock dropped his head forward until it met cold wood. “Why can’t you understand?” Sherlock scraped his nails on the door as they turned to fists, “I won’t let Father have you. I own you as equally as you own me. Don’t you see, John? No one can own either of us if we already belong to each other.”

“I don’t want to  _ own  _ you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pressed his body against the door, desperately seeking any hint of John’s warmth on the other side. “You still don't understand. You already  _ have  _ me, John. _ I’m already yours _ . I’ve already given myself to you, all you have to do is take me. It can only be you. It  _ has  _ to be you.” Sherlock brought one fist against the door in a weak thud, “I don’t want anyone else to have control over me; that ownership. If I give it to you I need you to take it because once you take me from him I’ll be free. Then  _ we’ll  _ be free. We can run away; never come back-”

“You would leave your family?”

Sherlock’s eyes stared at the door, just where he knew John’s own would be if there wasn’t a door between them, “Yes.”

It wasn’t until Sherlock nearly repeated himself did John respond, “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock heard the carpet whisper under John’s feet as he stepped away from the door and Sherlock slammed both fists against the wood, “Don’t walk away from me; we aren’t done!”

After Sherlock heard the creak of the bed and its shifting covers as the other boy settled beneath them he slid his wand out from his sleeve and aimed it at the lock.

How typical of a Mudblood for stupidly thinking a mundane lock would be enough to keep a wizard out from where he wanted to go. Sherlock flicked his wand and the sound of metal sliding back from the lock carried heavy through the air. Sherlock felt a triumphant grin split his face as he flung the door open and settled his gaze onto the bed in the center of the room. He saw John’s form beneath the duvet, saw the blonde hair turned silver under the moon’s light and finally saw the open hurt in his eyes. Sherlock froze before he took that step into John’s room; his grin gone and his skin drained.

“Goodnight, brother.” He closed the door with nothing more said.

**_~~*~~_ **

“How dare that filth damage what’s mine?”

Sherlock stood, glaring at the fire to distract himself from the painful grip of his father’s harsh examinations. “It wasn’t John’s-”

“Silence.” Sherlock’s eyes swam as his father’s fingers tightened just before he was released. Sherlock quickly dropped to his knees and avoided his gaze. “I suppose you thought yourself clever: trying to force the boy to join you in running away from me. I would punish you if I didn’t know the Mudblood’s Muggle response was more painful to you than anything I can do at the moment. After all this time you’re still such a disappointment.” He heard his father’s fingers drum against the leather of his armchair. “Sometimes I wonder if it would be better to simply try for another with Estellazure instead of bothering to continue with you.” He sighed, “But then I remember the  _ disease _ and I restrain myself as I cannot risk losing your innateness merely because I’m too soft on you.” Sherlock clenched his fists.

“Look at me, Sherlock.” Sherlock lifted his head and glared at his father. “You hinge all of yourself, all of your aspirations, on a weak and simple boy who is too desperate to be part of  _ something  _ that he would never willingly throw it away for the sake of  _ just you _ .” His father’s gaze shifted to linger on the dark red mark on his face, “That is what happens when you demand too much and offer too little: resistance.” His eyes returned to Sherlock’s, “You offer the boy nothing but yourself when even yourself is not something you can offer.” His pale eyes narrowed, “Don’t think you can give what’s mine without my consent. You exist only because  _ I _ want you to.”

Sherlock glared at him and he only laughed, “Mycroft got away from me because I let him; what use do I have for a creature whom even magic rejects?” He crossed his leg, the tip of his shoe nudging under Sherlock’s chin, “You will never be in a position to get away from me, Sherlock.  _ I have what you want. _ ” 

His father took a sip of the pitch liquid in his class and tilted Sherlock’s head to see the vibrant mark on the side, “Have Loti get rid of that. I can’t be parading around the Ministry with damaged goods; people will think I’m neglecting my responsibilities as a father.” He dropped his foot from Sherlock’s chin and gazed at the dancing flames beside him, “And after all that effort I put into threatening the families of the ones disrespecting the newest addition to my household.”

Sherlock swallowed and ground his teeth as he waited the expected five minutes of silence before getting to his feet and leaving his father’s study.


	4. Normal

John stared out the massive windows of his room while he listened to the stillness of the house.

_ “Quiet Charm, John. Obviously.” _

John groaned as he rolled around under the heavy duvet and sheet of the bed. Right, right, of course a pure-blood family would have quiet charms placed in every bedroom because when they lived so far and away from the nearest town, or neighbor, they  _ really  _ needed that  _ extra  _ touch to make it  _ extra  _ silent.

He flipped over onto his stomach, letting his face sink into the pillow, and came up not a minute later because John realized he could breathe as easily as if he wasn’t trying to smother himself to sleep.

John shivered despite the perfectly controlled temperature wrapped around him and returned to staring out the window he had watched not even a bird fly past.

Too quiet. Too soft. Too lonely.

John was going to go mad at this rate.

He threw back the covers and moved to the door leading to the bathroom attached to his room -  _ his  _ \- and carefully considered the options available to him. Christ, maybe he  _ could  _ get used to it here. 

There were five different types of the same brand of toothpaste, one he’d never seen before that promised to be able to do everything from making your teeth too slippery for plaque to straight up growing a broken tooth. Only one toothbrush though and, of course, it was his favorite color. Sherlock’s been around in his head enough times that, at this point, if he didn’t know what color John preferred he would feel  _ more  _ insulted. There were razors and swabs and some weird bottles in a side drawer that claimed to eliminate pimples and prevent hair from growing for up to a week wherever you applied it. And it did advertise  _ wherever _ .

John shut that drawer and turned to the tub that dominated the entire back third of the room. He would have preferred a shower, faster and less hassle than having to draw the water, and John was initially confused about the lack of one: even the school had showers for the students. But then, when he thought about it, a wizard wouldn’t take a shower if they could clean themselves like Sherlock did. So a bath would only be used for relaxation and  _ to  _ waste time. If you want efficiency you use magic.

As the water pounded into the raised porcelain, John looked over the multicolored bottles on the short table beside the tub. Picking up one that looked deliciously like honey, John read its cursive font: Bright Blonde Bubble Bath: Keeps (& makes) every strand of hair naturally radiant! John glanced down at his body, cringing as he realized he was still in his pajamas and that he should know better than to expect himself to have suddenly sprouted hair in the last few hours since he changed into them. Sighing, John shrugged and popped open the cap to pour in the sparkling goop.

John was already blonde, what’s the worst that could happen?

**_~~*~~_ **

Apparently John wasn’t blonde  _ enough _ . 

He caught himself tugging at his golden hair and quickly shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. How did Sherlock stand these things? John had assumed the new clothes in his walk-in were going to be some of those fancy growth adjusting ones he’d heard about from a few of the students, but nope- all of these seemed distinctly Muggle and bespoke. How did Sherlock figure that one out when not even John knew his own size?

John heard his stomach again and sighed, it was half-ten and no one else was home. Well, not that he could find anyway. He wasn’t going to go to the upper east wing to check for Rory or Sherlock’s mum. Rory had made that the only rule so far and John was not going to break that, but he  _ had  _ barged into Sherlock’s room, as was fair game between them apparently, and found nothing but organized clutter inside.

Stepping into the kitchen, John eyed the fridge and the rest of the appliances warily. Everything looked normal, well Muggle, but there wasn’t a microwave and John panicked then. “They don’t honestly expect me to use the stove do they?” It wasn’t an electric top, there was going to be fully exposed flames if he turned that knob and John really wasn’t sure he was ready to risk setting the house on fire no matter how hungry he was.

“‘Tis a bit early for lunch,” John, startled by the squeaking voice, turned to see a grey short thing in a beautiful silk pillowcase, “but, seeing as you missed breakfast, Loti can make you something all the same.”

John stared at her a moment longer, blinking, before nodding, “You’re their elf.”

Her pointed ears flopped as she mimicked his own nod, “Loti is house-elf to the Holmes family, yes.”

John grinned, “That’s great, wonderful even,” he crouched down to be eye-level with her and she blinked at him. “And here I was thinking I’d be all alone for the day until everyone got back.”

A crinkle formed between her bright green eyes, “You aren’t alone, little sir; Madam is in her observatory.”

John’s heart skipped a beat, “Sherlock’s mum is here?”

The elf nodded, “Yes, though Madam does not leave unless there is a record to be delivered.”

“A record?”

Loti’s ears flopped, “Madam is a Seer.”

John gaped, “What, like, she can see the future?” No wonder they’re rich; people were probably willing to pay quite a bit for a glimpse into their future.

“Loti does not pretend to know what Madam sees; Loti only makes sure Madam is well.”

John leaned back on his heels while frowning, “You said she never leaves unless there is a record to be delivered. How often does that happen?”

“Loti cannot say, it has been as short as a week and longer than many months.”

John’s heart fell as he realized he wasn’t going to meet his new mum anytime soon. Then John’s heart plummeted right to his toes because didn’t that mean even Sherlock rarely got to see his own mum? He eased himself upright to stand and put his hands on his hips, “Alright, Loti, what’s for lunch?”

**_~~*~~_ **

Okay, so, maybe John was overreacting about the whole alone thing. So what if the sitting room was called a parlor and John didn’t want to touch anything because it looked like no one else had in years? So what if he had nothing to do outside because there was actually nothing but flat open grass until the very edges of the property where the road wasn’t even visible? So what if he hardly understood any book he pulled from the library shelves at random because they were either in a language he didn’t know or were of things he had no clue about? So what if Loti couldn’t spend time with him as she had a whole manor to clean and care for all by herself? And so what if John’s room was lavishly dressed? There wasn’t anything in there that looked like someone did so much as exist in it, and  _ he  _ was the one who had spent the night there!

But John didn’t mind all that because there was still Sherlock’s room.

There wasn’t a scrap of clothing on the floor or on the bed and there wasn’t a dirty dish or cup to be seen, but there was hardly much room on either of the two workbenches to rest your elbows on let alone actually use any of the beakers or papers or quills that were laying all over them or the desk just beside. The bed was haphazardly made at best and the pillows hadn’t been fluffed after the night spent with a head on them like John’s had when he came back upstairs from lunch. The wardrobes intimidated him, and John still regretted taking a peek because he now knew the idea of Sherlock actually going to that level with John’s index was a thing of nightmares. Sherlock’s loo was boring, save for a few unidentifiable stains on the ceiling and around the drains of both the sink and the tub but John noticed Sherlock had no shampoos or soaps or even a toothbrush, instead there were more beakers and eyedroppers and tubes stashed away in the drawers and cabinet.

John tossed the briefcase he brought from his trunk onto Sherlock’s, pulling out his Transfiguration textbook to settle down and read.

**_~~*~~_ **

“What are you doing?”

John twitched and groaned at the noise.

“This is my room, John. What are you doing in my bed?”

_ Sherlock. _ John blinked, hummed and blinked again as he rolled over to face the boy looking at him beside the bed. “G’mornin?”

“It’s evening actually; nearly supper time.” 

John grunted before it turned into a yawn, “Where’ve you been?”

“At the Ministry with Father.” 

Sherlock was still hovering beside the bed and John pulled himself up against the pillow and headboard. John looked at him with curiosity, “At the Ministry? You go to work with your father?” Realization, “Did your mum have a record you two had to deliver?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit as they stared into John’s and he tilted his head up slightly, “You’ve spoken with Loti about Mummy.” John nodded as the fog of sleep left his eyes. “Not this time. Wednesday is the day Father brings me with him so I can improve on my Legilimency.”

John’s heart stuttered and he tried swallowing around the lump in his throat, “Is that why you didn’t come back? Was it too painful at school; being around all those people all the time?”

Sherlock didn’t blink, “You know that answer, John.” John lowered his eyes, “But it  _ is  _ the reason Father will give to the school when I resume classes next term.” John nodded without meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “You still haven’t answered my question, John. Why are you in my bed?”

John ran his hand over the upended book and opened the briefcase next to him, “I suppose I fell asleep while reading for my assignments.” John put the textbook back inside and latched the case closed before turning to Sherlock’s still body. Wait- not  _ not  _ moving, John saw Sherlock’s right hand twitch and the lump in his throat lessened: Sherlock was nervous. John licked his lips and finally met Sherlock’s icy eyes, “I… like your bed better than mine?” John didn’t intend for that last word to come out higher at the end, making it into a question, but, if he was honest with himself, he was sure that  _ wasn’t  _ a lie.

Sherlock’s eyes blinked before roaming over the bed themselves, “It shouldn’t be any different from the one in your room but, if you prefer it, I will give it to you.”

“I’m not going to take your bed.”

“It won’t inconvenience me; I hardly use it-”

“I don’t  _ want  _ your  _ bed _ , Sherlock!”

Sherlock recoiled slightly, “Obviously you’re lying.” He narrowed his eyes at John, “Ah, it's not only the bed but the  _ room  _ that you want. You like this room.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Now that  _ will  _ inconvenience me; moving everything into yours but, if you desire this room, then that, too, I will give-”

“It's not the bloody room Sherlock!” Yelling at him, John swung his feet off the side of the bed, causing Sherlock to stagger back as John immediately stood and jabbed his finger against his chest, “It's not the bed or the walls or the carpet or whatever else you  _ think  _ it is about the room that makes me like it more than my own. It’s you that I want.  _ You _ .”

Sherlock’s eyes widened further than John had ever seen and he watched as Sherlock’s forming Adam’s apple shifted with a heavy swallow. “You’re a prat and a git and a complete and  _ utter  _ wanker Sherlock; truly you are. But you’re my best friend and  _ brother,  _ now. You’re the only one here that I know and trust.” Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue but John was glad he managed to keep his mouth shut. “Yes, you did unlock my door with magic. Of  _ course  _ you could do that because Flitwick taught us Alohomora in class and what spell do I know that you don't? But you didn’t come in, Sherlock. You stopped yourself from continuing the argument and I know you wanted nothing more at that moment than to prove you were right and I was wrong and whatever else but then you stopped yourself because you realized what you had done had been very  _ not  _ good and so you only said goodnight before leaving all on your own.”

Sherlock’s feet shifted in place and he turned his head to glare at the rumpled bed but he didn’t say anything.

John sighed, “Look, it’s fine Sherlock. Yeah you popped the lock to get into my room but I can’t say I’m surprised.” John chuckled under his breath, “I promise you that if Harry could have done that whenever I locked mine she would have done the same thing in a heartbeat.” 

Sherlock rounded on him, a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes as his hands turned to fists at his side, “I’m  _ nothing  _ like that  _ filth- _ ”

John glared hard at him and Sherlock snapped his teeth shut with a clack. He took a steadying breath as he flexed his hands, “Look, you’ve never had a sibling so you wouldn’t get it Sherlock, but even after… what happened with my parents, I can’t find it in myself to not still care about her.” John kept his eyes steadily on Sherlock’s, trying to remember whatever memories he could of the pleasant times he’d spent with Harry. “Dad didn’t want a girl, he wanted a boy, and so he named her Harriet only so he could get away with calling her Harry and maybe he could forget that she wasn’t a boy. And when Mum had me Harry loved me more than either of them.” John sighed, “I know she did because I was her freedom, Sherlock. With dad being so happy to finally have a son, he gave up on Harry and she could be herself. And because she loved me I loved her,” John smiled ruefully, “still do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Maybe you’re right.” John jerked his shoulders in a stiff shrug, “You probably are, and if I was smarter then maybe I could hate her but we can’t all be as brilliant as you. Love doesn’t make sense. But even if the part of me that still loves her is smaller and more hidden than I could ever hope to find, I know it’s there because whenever I remember her I can feel it.”

They stood there, watching and waiting to see which of them would speak next and, after an excruciating amount of time, Sherlock stretched himself straighter and clasped his hands behind his back, “Can it be considered normal for siblings to share a room?”

John grinned, “Who cares about being normal?”


	5. Living

The room they had shared at Hogwarts barely had either of them in it for twenty-four hours in total and John had been too overwhelmed to have the time to think about the reality of sharing space with someone who wasn’t family. John would be lying if he hadn’t felt a bit of nerves when Sherlock had suggested they share the room but he was glad their renewed cohabitation went far smoother than John had thought it would.

The bedroom was massive and, as far as John was concerned, shouldn’t’ve had any issue providing them both with enough space to not bump into each other or get in each other's way. John hadn’t even had trouble finding a portion to claim for himself as Sherlock had been relatively accommodating towards John being added to his space.

_ “Could you bring in the desk from the other room for me, Sherlock?” _

_ “There is already a desk here, John.” _

_ “Yes, but that is  _ your  _ desk, covered with  _ your  _ stuff.  _ I _ need someplace to work, too.” _

And Sherlock hadn’t even thought twice before waving his wand and stuffing everything he could from the desk into the bookcase next to it.

John had tried moving around some of Sherlock’s things in order to make space for his own in the bathroom attached to their room but then he watched Sherlock dump a foul looking, and fouler smelling, mixture into the tub.

_ “I’ve yet to perfect the Vanishing Spell, John; best not risk it. Oh and don’t  _ ever  _ go to retrieve something if it falls into the drain. Hogwarts and the Ministry may have Muggle plumbing because people are idiots but here we have the expectation that one won’t lose anything  _ irreplaceable  _ down the drain.” _

And John decided he would continue walking across the hall into his old room to use the loo rather than be further exposed to whatever else Sherlock would make that needed a permanent vanishing spell to get rid of.

The walk-in was a near-argument, one that almost had John forgoing the whole thing because he would not agree to wearing Sherlock’s clothes.

_ “They are enchanted with Size-Adjusting and Mending Charms, John. They will adapt to whoever wears them.” _

_ “I will not wear your bloody clothes, Sherlock!” _

_ “I fail to see the issue; both sets of clothes were purchased from the same tailor.” _

_ “No one less than the Queen herself would have had to make your clothes for me to wear them, Sherlock. And what of my jumpers, hm? I would still like to wear them even if they aren’t enchanted with whatever charms you lot think are so important. And don’t think they are going into your Index either.” _

And the git actually had the nerve to look hurt when he finally bothered to admit the walk-in was enchanted with its own Extension Charm in order to accommodate any amount of clothes one could own; just place a hanger on the bar and it would magically extend another half-foot of length for another to be added.

The only issue Sherlock refused to budge on was about the bed as Sherlock told him he would neither bring in an additional bed,

_ “An unacceptable and unnecessary reduction in usable floor space, John. I am already suffering the loss from the one here.” _

Nor would he swap it out for two singles,

_ “Why would you want to swap out the bed we both prefer? A Double King’s dimensions are the same as two separate Singles without the added cost of wasted space in between.” _

And so John gave up because his one complaint hadn’t proved to matter much in the end as he’d only seen Sherlock use the bed on Wednesdays.

Even if Sherlock barely slept, rarely ate, and was quite happy to show John why he was wrong on his summer assignments (in excruciating detail), John couldn’t help but admit to himself that he had never been happier than when he and Sherlock simply existed in the same room together.

And his heart swelled every time he remembered they were never going to be separated again.

**_~~*~~_ **

John hated Wednesdays. Hate might be a strong opinion to have for a day of the week, but John felt it was reasonable when every other day was wonderful while the one known as Wednesday never was. It was the only day of the week that Sherlock wasn’t there when John woke up; Sherlock having gone to join his father at work for the entire day so he could ‘work on his Legilimency.’ And every time he came back he was exhausted and grumpy and sickly and just an all-around prat more than usual and it always had them at each other’s throats before the night was through.

The door opened with a bang but it wasn’t until the smell hit him that John turned away from his desk just in time to see Sherlock flop face-down onto the bed.

“Oh no you don’t. We’ve talked about this.” John returned his quill to its stand and glared at the blob that was his brother. “Every time you come back from the Ministry smelling like you've taken a dip in the Thames you are not to even  _ look  _ at the bed until you’ve removed the top three layers of skin.” Sherlock’s body lurched in response but didn’t make any attempt at getting up and John got to his feet, groaning, “If I have to I  _ will  _ drag you into the tub.”

Sherlock lifted his arm up and off the side of the bed as John came near. Sherlock turned his head to look at him, “It was hardly a discussion.” 

John rolled his eyes, “You’re right, it was a row. Just like this’ll be if I have to drag you off the bed.” John waited and watched as Sherlock merely let his hand hang there in the air between them. John folded his arms over his chest while glaring and Sherlock’s own eyes narrowed in response. Then, without breaking eye contact, Sherlock rolled onto his side, scooting his body backwards so that when he finished rolling onto his back he was on the other side of the bed.  _ John’s  _ side.

The younger brother lunged, sending them both tumbling over the edge.

**_~~*~~_ **

In the month and a half that John had been staying at the Holmes’, he hadn’t once seen Sherlock’s mum. Oh, he knew her name but it had taken far more work than he should have thought it would to have Sherlock tell him. Then again, John had yet to see Sherlock call his father anything but, and Rory had similarly never called Sherlock anything except son.

Even John had called his dad Henry once in a while.

So when he finally saw her, John couldn’t even think to say her name because the sight of her rendered it moot: she  _ was  _ her name.

She was tall, easily the tallest woman John had ever met and knew it was true because, as she moved toward him and Sherlock, he saw her pale toes peeking from beneath her startlingly blue robes. Her face was glowing, there was no other word for it as her inky curls flared perfectly around her radiant smile when she looked at them. She fell to her knees and John made a nearly audible strangled noise from the back of his throat as she took both of them into her long arms in a fierce hug.

“ _ Mon Sheri! _ ” She kissed the air between their heads before leaning back to look at them.

Sherlock was stiff beside him and nodded, “Mummy.”   


John blinked rapidly in disbelief before stammering, “Good morning, Mrs. Holmes.”

She looked at John then, fully locking eyes as bright as her robes onto John’s dark ones and showed perfectly white teeth, “Oh,  _ enfant _ , call me Mummy.”

John blushed furiously while looking at his shoes, mumbling, “A-lright.”

“Have you made another record?”

John frowned at his brother’s tone and cold expression. 

Mummy nodded enthusiastically and smiled past them, “ _ Oui, Mari _ was so happy. It must have been so long since the last.”

Sherlock nodded, “Four months.”

John saw Sherlock’s mum tense, her expression wane slightly as she leaned backward to stand once again. She looked at Sherlock, “Will you be joining  _ Mari _ ?”

Sherlock glanced at John, their eyes meeting briefly before returning to look at her, “No. It is John’s birthday today and I will be occupied with finding a suitable present.”

John jerked his head to hiss at him, “Sherlock!”

An odd sound, high and nasally, came and John suddenly found himself wrapped in blue silk and pale arms. “ _ Joyeux anniversaire! _ ” She pulled back slightly and ran a tender hand through John’s hair, “How old are you, _ Jean _ ?”

Against his wishes, John melted under her affection and he had to fight very hard to not bury his face against her, “Twelve.”

“You’ve already had your first year at school then?” John nodded against her. “ _ Sheri _ must be quite jealous.” John stilled, uneasiness beginning to form in his stomach, and twisted around to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “You’ll promise to look out for him won’t you?  _ Mari  _ and I have always worried about how his first year will go; being around so many by himself.” John swallowed as Sherlock’s expression tightened. Mummy pulled back and slid her hand from the back of his head into a caress against his cheek. John's face followed and he stared into her clear blue eyes, “Can I count on you to be there for him once he receives his letter? For me?”

John stopped breathing, but nodded.

She smiled and leaned down to press her lips into his hair, whispering, “ _ Bon enfant.” _ before releasing him, “ _ Au revoir, Mon Jean-i _ .” She reached for her son then and Sherlock hesitated, staring at her outstretched hand, before walking into her embrace.  _ “Sois bon pour moi, Sheri. Je t’aime.” _

John watched as Sherlock muttered, “ _ Je vais _ .  _ Adieu _ , Mummy,” against her before she released him and floated back down the way she came.

Sherlock and John watched her disappear around the corner at the end of the hall. John licked his lips, “How old-”

“Ten.” His voice was hollow.

John looked to his brother, “Sher-”

“Don’t pity  _ me _ , John,” Sherlock snapped, turning to meet his eyes. “ _ You’re _ the one she won’t remember.”


	6. The Present

“I will be back to retrieve you once your father is done at the Ministry.”

Sherlock didn’t make any hint at acknowledgement before he was out of the car and heading for the pub they had pulled in front of.

John sighed and tried to smile at her, “Yes, thank you, Constance. Have a good day at work.” 

Constance didn’t share the expression, but she nodded, “Behave yourselves.”

John climbed out of the car and nearly hit a woman walking by as he wildly slung the briefcase over his shoulder as he tried to catch up with Sherlock who had already entered the  _ Leaky Cauldron _ .

The air inside was heavy with smoke and if John hadn’t been exposed to the fumes Sherlock’s experiments put off in the last month he might’ve choked but he, instead, found the scent of flavored tobacco pleasantly harmless. He spotted Sherlock’s curls at the other end of the pub, heading under an arch with a sign above and tried not to be too rude when he shoved his way through the startling amount of people between him and his brother.

When John had managed to join Sherlock in the small storage nook he had just finished tapping his wand on specific bricks in the wall causing them to tremble and clack and twist around each other to create an opening leading to their destination:  _ Diagon Alley. _

“Stick close to me, John.” Sherlock said, stowing his wand, “I can’t have you wondering around aimlessly.”

“Stuff it,” John jabbed Sherlock in the side with his elbow, “It’s my birthday today which means  _ we  _ go where  _ I _ want.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose, “Very well; where to?”

John shrugged and looked up at his brother who had, annoyingly, grown an inch more than he had over the summer, “Any suggestions?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled, “Several.”

“Oh? Lead the way then, I believe it’s my right to be entertained today.”

Smirking, Sherlock lifted his chin and headed into the throngs of witches and wizards on the cobblestone street with John right on his heels.

A bookshop wasn’t what John had thought Sherlock would choose as the first thing to try and wow him on his birthday trip through Diagon Alley, but he was wonderfully surprised how much he enjoyed it inside Flourish and Blotts. The noise from the street outside was muffled, nothing more than a constant hum of life. The narrow shelves with the low hanging lamps were cozy and John felt tension slowly leave his body and realized, as he and Sherlock got lost in the towering maze of winding shelves, this was the best place for him to go to get acclimated being around people again. Not since the Hogwarts Express had John been around more than what he could count on one hand. And not since he had been rescued by the witch who gave him his letter had he been brought here to purchase his wand and supplies for Hogwarts. Sherlock had brought him here first because he hadn’t wanted John to get stressed out on what was supposed to be  _ his  _ day.

He wasn’t sure how long they had been there, Sherlock reading whatever spine caught his eye and John staring at each new face they crossed on their circling paths among the books but when John turned to the mess of dark curls hovering over an open book beside him he felt as relaxed as if he was back in their room at home. “I think I’m done here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s icy eyes met his and seemed to find truth in John’s words because he immediately snapped the book shut and nodded, “Let us buy our required books for the year before we head to the next store.”

The next store turned into three as Sherlock led him to a place they could restock on potion ingredients, purchase John a better cauldron and scale set, and both of them whole new sets of Hufflepuff compliant robes and uniforms. John didn’t mind it too much, seeing as how he really did need all of these things with school starting again soon, but he was curious as to why Sherlock was being so responsible by getting all of the necessary tasks done first before they went someplace more fun for his birthday.

“I know I’ve promised to stop hiding things from you, John, especially after The Incident but, as it is your birthday, I believe I am permitted to when it concerns certain aspects of today.”

Startled, John frowned as he watched Sherlock pay for their clothes, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock opened the briefcase at John’s hip and dropped their new clothes inside. “Don’t be dim, John. Obviously I’m referring to your present.”

Sherlock flipped the top back over but hadn’t bothered to twist the latch to secure it and so John had to. “You mean all this time you’ve been taking me to these stores hoping I would tell you what I want as a gift?”

Sherlock stopped, with his hand on the door, and looked back at him, “You’ve grown a year older, John, not a hundred; stop being senile.” Sherlock shoved the door open with John appearing beside him not a second later, “I already know what I want to give you as a present; I’m just having trouble finding someone who has one to sell.”

John trotted next to him, chuckling, “What on earth could possibly be sold at both an ingredient shop and a tailor?”

Sherlock’s hands balled at his sides, “Something that I hadn’t anticipated would be so difficult to get a hold of.”

“Look, Sherlock, you don’t have to worry about getting me the perfect gift. I don’t need anything posh-” Sherlock grabbed his shoulder, cutting off his words and forcing John to look at him. John held his breath as the witches and wizards that walked by tuttered at them for stopping in the middle of the street.

Abruptly, Sherlock grimaced and released him before turning away to resume their journey, “Come along, John. They are far from the only places that may have what I want.”

**_~~*~~_ **

“Last one, John.”

“You said that  _ at  _ the last one!”

“Yes, and if we don’t find it here it  _ will  _ be the last one as this  _ is  _ the last place that sells potion ingredients!” Sherlock flung open the door, startling an older wizard behind the counter into over pouring a blue powder and tipping the scale.

The shopkeeper placed the jar down; glass hitting wood with a resounding thunk, “Now, see here young man-”

Sherlock advanced on him and slammed both of his palms on the counter, “Spare me, wizard.” He flung an arm behind him, fingers splayed, “Turn around, John, and cover your ears.” Once he heard his brother’s groan of compliance he brought his hand back to point at the shopkeeper. “Moonstone; not powdered.”

Sherlock had grossly miscalculated how much of an impact the new year would affect the likelihood of him finding someplace that hadn’t already turned their stock of Moonstones into powder. He’d not thought much of it at the first shop, after all, it was only one of many. But, as the day went on and the shops they went to all told him a similar story (or the clothiers having sold all but their tiniest stones to the aforementioned potion shops), he had grown increasingly agitated until even John had begun to bemoan about his hunger and growling stomach and it had taken every ounce of Sherlock’s patience to not drag John along with a hand over his mouth so he could get some quiet!

The wizard blinked at the finger in his face before swatting it away, huffing. “Yes,” Sherlock’s heart raced, “I have a stone I’ve yet to grind. But it isn't for sale as I need to restock my supply-”

“Thirty Galleons.” Sherlock threw his offer at him. “And if it is of sufficient size and grade I will double it to compensate.”

The old man’s eyes widened before darting back and forth between him and John.

“ _ Don’t look at him _ ,” Sherlock snarled. “ _ I’m _ the one purchasing the stone.  _ Go get it _ , so _ I _ can decide whether or not it’s worth  _ my  _ sixty Galleons.”

The keep nodded before quickly disappearing through the curtain behind the counter. Sherlock took a tentative look behind him, not shocked to find John’s stormy eyes glaring at him.

_ You are such a bloody wanker Sherlock! I’m hungry and It’s my birthday and you’ve done nothing but drag me around in search of this  _ thing  _ that you think I want even though I can't think of anything more I could ever  _ possibly  _ want in the world than to throw you out onto your posh- _

The older wizard came back in a flurry of curtains and handed Sherlock a purple drawstring bag, “I polished it a bit for you, sir.”

Sherlock snatched it up and pried apart the opening to reveal a pearlescent citrine colored stone the size of a small egg. It glowed with a calming brilliance and Sherlock was grinning as he looked back at his brother. “It’s perfect, John; just like you.”

**_~~*~~_ **

John had tried not to think about the bag whose string dangled from outside Sherlock’s pocket, but, as they made their way back to the busier part of Diagon Alley John found his attention falling back to that tiny golden thread at Sherlock’s side. So, when Sherlock finally moved his hand into that pocket and John saw the bag get pulled out to rest in those pale fingers, he found himself reaching for it instinctively.

“Give me your wand, John.”

John blinked back to attention and replayed what Sherlock had said. His wand slipped down into his hand and he looked at it briefly before handing it to his brother’s open palm, “Sure, alright, but what do you need my wand for?”

Sherlock grinned, “For your present, of course,” and, having John’s wand firmly in hand, spun around to enter the shop John hadn’t realized they were outside of.

_ Ollivander’s. _

“Ah, Mr. Holmes. Is there a reason you have Mr. Watson’s rowan?”

John looked up the name no one’s called him since the train from Hogwarts and caught the eyes of the odd old wizard who had sold him his wand nearly a year prior.

“Yes.” Sherlock placed both John’s wand and the bag on the counter, “I want this Moonstone set into the base of this wand here.”

Ollivander took the bag and removed the stone while taking out a small lens from his vest pocket. John’s heart sped up as he came closer and saw the clearly glowing stone being held up to a wrinkled face.

“And what does Mr. Watson want?”

John blinked and met the pale green eyes of the old wandmaker; he nodded.

Ollivander chuckled as he tucked both the stone and the lens into his vest pocket, “Very well. I will create the setting.” He looked to Sherlock, “I will have to cut this stone down considerably for it to fit, I had to coil much of the core in that bulb in order to fit the entire strand into such a short wand.”

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, “Whatever you think is best.”

Ollivander placed John’s wand onto a velvet mat, wrapping it around the wood, before placing it into a wandbox, “I will work on it between customers but I don’t expect many this year so make sure to be back in three hours.” He turned to John, “ You’ll have to be here to finish merging the stone to the wood. The wand may allow me to fix and change its appearance because I am its maker but It will not accept something new without you.”

Words failing him, John merely nodded.

Sherlock placed several Galleons onto the counter before taking John’s arm and leading him out of the shop, “Come, John the Blonde, it’s time for you to eat.”

**_~~*~~_ **

“So… What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his dissection of pasty, “As much as the waitress claims that it is bovine I’m 87% sure it is, in fact-”

“Not the mess on your plate, Sherlock, I mean the stone. What is the stone? You called it Moonstone and I can certainly see why it might be called that. But why did you buy me a gem, Sherlock? I’m not a girl you know.”

“Of course I know you’re not a girl.” Sherlock let his knife and fork fall into the organized piles of vegetables and bread and meat. “And I am constantly thankful you aren’t, as females are the most emotionally unstable individuals.”

John raised an eyebrow, “Uh huh.”

Sherlock leaned forward onto his elbows, hiding his mouth behind interlaced fingers, “Besides, giving you a Moonstone would be far more… insinuating if you were female.”

John didn’t like the sound of that, so he popped a chip into his mouth while he waited for Sherlock to continue.

Sherlock sighed, “As I’ve said before, wizards are superstitious. Traditions and fears remain strong and run deep in the wizarding world because there are so few of us and we each live far longer than a Muggle would. That gives every witch or wizard the opportunity to perpetuate opinions that  _ will  _ be heard whether or not they are backed up with factual evidence.”

Now John was really worried, “So… What, did you buy me a cursed object?”

Sherlock huffed, looking insulted, “Quite the opposite. Moonstone is a magical substance considered to have protective properties.”

Touched, John relaxed with relief, “Oh, well that’s rather nice of you, Sherlock, thank you.”

“Though I was hesitant to have it set into your wand, as I’ve not seen it done before, I concluded it would be safe as it is commonly used for rings and pendants and other enchanted jewelry by Pureblood families as a betrothal gift.”

John choked on his butter-beer, sputtering, “ _ What? _ ”

Sherlock smirked, “You’re making me repeat myself John; now you owe me a cuppa-”

“Forget the bloody tea, Sherlock!” John grabbed the sides of their table while leaning forward to hiss at him, “Are you  _ mental _ ? I’m your  _ brother _ -”

“I know what you are!” Sherlock slammed a hand on the table, “I won’t accept another person on earth claiming to know you better than I do.” Sherlock pulled himself out of his seat to loom over John before pointing wildly out towards the front of the restaurant, “That stone is the physical manifestation of what you are; the  _ perfect  _ delineation of  _ John _ . Just because it is an ingredient in a Love Potion does  _ not  _ mean-”

“Love Potion!” John’s own body and voice rising and, though not as impressive with Sherlock’s extra inch, he still snarled with no less ferocity. “You put a  _ sodding  _ Love Rock in my wand?”

“Of bloody  _ course  _ you would latch onto the  _ irrelevant  _ aspect of the stone’s use,” Sherlock’s skin was flushed, easily matching John’s rage. “Why are you being an  _ idiot _ , John? You’re ignoring the far more vital role it plays in creating the Draught of Peace!”

“Draught of what?” John’s voice cracked, some of his anger leaking out, as Sherlock’s words made their way to his brain.

“Of peace! Of calm. Of acceptance and understanding.” Sherlock strained against the table as John slowly deflated and the space between them grew, “The Draught of Peace is used to comfort and reassure someone who is distraught. Someone who cannot function properly due to overwhelming anxiety. Someone who is too paralyzed by fear to be able to manage on their own.” 

John finally collapsed back into his chair and Sherlock growled in frustration and tore a hand through his hair, curls flying wildly, before falling into his own. Sherlock’s arms were folded tight over his chest and his leg bobbed rapidly under the table as he glared at John between snorting gulps of air and bared teeth, “The Moonstone is called such because it is a reassuring light, John. It glows despite what surrounds it. Some say it glows the brightest when there isn’t anything one can see but darkness.” Sherlock untangled his arms and leaned forward again, clasping his hands together on the table, as he arrested John with his eyes, “You are so much  _ more  _ than my brother, John. You are the peace I didn’t know I so desperately needed,” John’s heart skipped, “the light I cannot afford to lose sight of.”

John didn’t know what to say, and it wasn’t until Sherlock’s eyes lost their intensity, his gaze faltering, before John found his voice. He cleared his throat, “It’s going to be bloody impossible for me to top that for your birthday isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s smile was nearly as brilliant as the wizard himself, “I have the utmost faith in you John.”

**_~~*~~_ **

“Enter.”

John steeled his spine before pushing open the door to his adoptive father’s study.

“John,” Rory rose from his desk and moved around to welcome him inside, “How was your birthday? I did wonder if Sherlock would behave but then I remembered how much better he is when you’re around so…” he trailed off with an absent gesture as he placed a hand on John’s back, leading him to one of the large armchairs in front of the fireplace.

John settled into the adult-sized chair, trying to ignore the fact that his feet weren't even close to the floor, “Today was great, wonderful in fact. Thank you for letting us go even if you couldn’t.”

Rory waved dismissively with one hand while flicking the finger on his other so it pointed towards the desk behind him. A glass of a drink more dark than coffee floated into Rory’s hand. “Think nothing of it. As a father, I should have been with you, to ensure you were properly supplied for the year.” He took a sip, “But Estella’s record comes first I’m afraid. Even in the face of a son’s birthday.” 

“No, no, I understand,” John said, “I’m sure knowing the future is far more important than my birthday.”

A small smile formed on the man’s lips, “Prophecies are hardly as useful as you are probably envisioning, John.” At John’s curious look he continued, “They are more of a liability. Every Seer who experiences a prophetic vision is required to bring its record to the Ministry so we can keep track of them. However; we do not act upon them nor do we share them with the world. Historically, visions are notoriously prone to misinterpretation which has led to unfortunate consequences in both ours and the Muggle world by those who would seek to prevent danger that may or may not be there.” Rory took a longer sip, “Muggles have the worst reactions to prophecies, what with their fear of the unknown driving them towards self-destruction. So, as their betters, we wizards have taken it upon ourselves to ensure they do not find out nor have access to them. And if that means the wizarding world is similarly left in the dark, to minimize exposure, so be it.”

“So we are protecting them?” John asked.

Rory’s smile widened, showing more teeth than John thought he should have, “We must, John. As Muggles are barely above the animals they themselves eat when compared to the dangers of the magical world. Their safety hinges on the few of us who are capable of protecting them and it has to be done so that we ourselves can continue to exist.”

John nodded as he committed the knowledge to memory.

Rory’s smile shrunk slightly and he drained the rest of his glass, “Enough of that, now, what did you come to see me for, John?”

Eager to learn more, but realizing his adoptive father may have more important things to do than spend much longer with him, John got to the point: “It’s about Sherlock’s present.”

His red eyebrow rose while he waved a hand over the empty glass, causing it to vanish, “Did he get you something inappropriate?”

“No!” John quickly reassured, “No, it was… Perfect.” John’s fingers pinched and tugged at the cloth of his trousers, “A bit odd but when he explained it and I saw it…” John smiled, “I know he can read my mind but even I didn’t know I wanted it until I had it.”

Rory’s smile lost a bit of its wattage, “Then why have you come to me?”

John brought himself to his highest as he looked directly into the eyes of the man who had claimed him as a son, “I need you to teach me Legilimency.”


	7. Wednesday

John tried not to take it too personal that Sherlock wouldn’t look at him as they rode in the back of the car, but then he remembered how absolutely livid he had been when he found out what he had asked of Rory. John never doubted Sherlock would find out, the least of the tell tale signs being that he would accompany them to the Ministry on Wednesday, as his brother was able to read whatever thoughts John had, but he had hoped Sherlock would’ve been, at the very least,  _ happy  _ that John had decided to be more proactive towards what Sherlock himself had said he would do.

_ “I said I would teach you Occlumency, John. You are not ready to learn Legilimency.” _

_ “But Occlumency only prevents others from reading my mind, it doesn’t help me to read yours.” _

_ “Occlumency is your defense should your attempts at Legilimency fail. If you put too much effort in attacking the mind you’re delving into you may find your own vulnerable to their attempts of retaliation.” _

_ “I only want to read  _ your  _ mind though, Sherlock, and I know you wouldn’t hurt me. Why are you so against this all of a sudden? I thought you would have been thrilled at the idea of never having to actually  _ speak  _ to me again.” _

Sherlock had said nothing more on the matter, seeming to prefer staring out the window of the car as Constance delivered them to the ministry. Rory had gone ahead to make preparations for John’s arrival as The Department of Mysteries wasn’t keen on allowing children access, but Rory had said it wouldn’t pose much of an issue considering John was now considered as much his son as Sherlock.

John had nearly backed down from the whole thing then, fearing Rory’s job might be at risk, but once he told John that he could prove as a valuable control point for Sherlock’s own training John was back on board.

As the city of London came into view, John looked at his brother’s reflection in his window, “Rory said I could help you-”

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, “Your presence will have the exact opposite effect: I’ll be too distracted trying to keep you safe to actually get any meaningful progress made.”

John turned to face the back of his brother’s head, “I’m not some sort of burden.”

Sherlock’s sneer met John’s glare in the reflection of his window, “If you insist on coming with us, you’ll be nothing but.”

John’s anger rose with his voice, “I’m a wizard the same as you!”

“Do not  _ compare  _ yourself to me,” Sherlock rounded on him then, pale blue eyes nearly scorching, “ _ you’re nothing like me!” _

Blinking rapidly, John’s glare faltered before his whole face collapsed in a deep frown, “You’re right- I’m just a stupid Muggle, how could I ever compare to an  _ all-powerful wizard like you _ ?”

Sherlock’s face reddened, but the frustration in his eyes vanished as John turned away from him to stare back out his window. Neither boy said anything for the rest of the trip.

**_~~*~~_ **

John was stupid. Idiotic. An imbecile. Moronic. Not because he wasn’t a Pure-blood, but because he had decided to place his faith in one.

Sherlock wasn’t sure what Father was planning by having John accompany them to the Department of Mysteries, but, whatever it was, it was most definitely  _ not good _ . There was nothing altruistic about Sherlock’s attendance at the Ministry; it was all part of the arrangement; of the deal made to have John become part of their family. The Department of Thought has had several decades without progress towards anything useful and once Sherlock had offered himself as a willing test subject for John’s acceptance, Father had been all too eager to accept.

_ “Is that all? Most boys want an owl or Kneazle for a pet but, if it will make you cooperate, I will permit the Mudblood to call my house his home.” _

Sherlock sent a forlorn look at the huddled, pouting, form of John at the far end of the backseat. He thought of calling John’s name to do something about the oppressive silence that had settled between them but then he remembered who was in the car with them and he remembered he had to keep up appearances. He had to keep Father uninterested in abusing his implied control over John. So long as Father didn’t see John as much more than a prized toy to keep Sherlock in check, until he could finish molding and conforming Sherlock to his will, John would be safe to simply  _ be  _ until Sherlock was ready to get them both as far away from Father’s influence as possible.

But what was the point of the charade now? Father had made a move and Sherlock wasn’t anywhere close to knowing what his objective was for involving John in the experiments. And John, the innocent fool that he was, had wholeheartedly given himself over. The only thing still keeping Sherlock from knocking Constance out, grabbing hold of John and bursting out of the car and into the unknown streets of London before they arrived was that even if Father was in charge of the Department of Mysteries he could not get away with subjecting a child to unnecessarily risky tests for the sake of progress.

At least not on a Wednesday.

**_~~*~~_ **

John wasn’t sure why, but every lift with Sherlock had been more suffocating than the hoards of people all around them in the Atrium. Who was he kidding? Of course he knew why- it’s because Sherlock was an arse. So what if Sherlock had four more years of using magic than John?  _ He  _ didn’t know  _ everything _ . In fact, Rory’s been using magic since before Sherlock was even born, so, if he said it was alright to come here and learn Legilimency then Sherlock was the berk, not John. He was just jealous because soon  _ John  _ would be able to dig around in  _ Sherlock’s  _ head.

They had only descended a single floor, to the ninth and the Department of Mysteries, but the floor was a dark hallway that held none of the warmth of the level just above. What torches there were barely lit more than what was required to ensure one wouldn’t walk into the walls on their way to the lone door at the end, and John swallowed audibly before stepping out of the lift. 

Sherlock turned slightly to glance at him, “Scared John?”

John glared, “You wish,” watching as Sherlock’s eyebrow arched once before he faced forward.

They arrived at the door John realized had no handle and Constance placed the tip of her want at the center, causing it to swing open for them. John followed closely behind, narrowly nicking the heel of his shoe on the closing door, as they entered into a half-circle room similar to the hall behind them except there were now eight doors, with knobs this time, and a bald man seated at a curved desk. 

The man looked up, a neutral smile on his face, “Good morning Ms. Reedwind. Mr. Holmes is in the Brain Room waiting for you.” Constance merely nodded before continuing past.

Sherlock turned to the man at the desk as they walked by, “Anything interesting, Charles?”

The man instantly brightened behind Constance’s back, “You know I won’t tell you squat, boy.”

Sherlock flashed a smile, “Perhaps next time.”

He chuckled and waved them off, “The day you can get into my head, Sherlock, is the day I resign. Now quit your probing and get on out of here.”

John looked between Sherlock’s friendly behavior and the two-faced man with confusion but Constance was already holding the door open, staring at them to hurry.

And so John did.

**_~~*~~_ **

Sherlock didn’t know what he was expecting. Or, perhaps he did but it was only through the sheer power of foolish childish  _ hope  _ that he had denied the logical portion of his brain to be heard because he only wanted the same outcome John had pleaded so loudly when their eyes met just before he drank it.

John was dying and it was all Sherlock’s fault. 

Sherlock should have ripped that vial out of Father’s hand as he offered it to John and flung it across the room into a wall. He should have knocked it out of John’s hands so it shattered onto the tiled floor as Father reassured them that it was a potion the department had developed that would allow for a moderate boost in a wizard’s mental charm capabilities. He should have slapped his hand over John’s lips before he let the potion touch them. He should have grabbed John by the throat and squeezed so tight his esophagus wouldn't’ve been able to let the concoction through. He should have pried open John’s mouth, jammed his fingers inside to trigger a gag reflex and force the poison out of John’s body and onto the black marble floor.

But he hadn’t, because, like John, Sherlock had been willfully unquestioning of a Pureblood who had offered something they both  _ wanted _ : for Sherlock to be able to  _ talk  _ to John.

Sherlock was an idiot. An idiot who was now on his hand and knees as he tried to keep a convulsing blonde from biting off his tongue or suffocate on the blood and bile coming back up. An idiot who was unable to say anything except chant the name of the boy he was trying to comfort in his last moments. An idiot who wasn’t aware of anyone else in the room until he heard the voice he hated more than anything in the world say his name.

“There is still time for you to save him, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up from the steadily weakening body beneath him, the tears in his eyes allowed to freely trickle onto the blonde head in his lap, “Tell me what to do, Father.”

**_~~*~~_ **

“Sherl’k-?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up from the nest of his arms folded on the bed as he turned to look at the raspy voice that only managed one syllable of his name before his body began wracking itself with coughs.

“I’m here, John. Try not to speak- here,” Sherlock reached over and brought the lukewarm glass of water from the nightstand to his brother’s lips. “Take only a small sip, you haven’t had much to drink and even less to eat in days.” John let Sherlock lift his head off the bed so he could take a sip, which he drank more greedily than Sherlock had anticipated. “No more, John, your stomach won't be able to handle so much water right now.”

John groaned but didn’t fight to keep himself upright when Sherlock let him back down into the bed and moved the cup away. “So thirsty. And my mouth… It tastes so bad.”

Sherlock looked away while clasping his hands together on his lap, out of John’s line of sight, “I’m sorry, John.”

“S’olright, Sherlock. Just bring me my toothbrush and-”

“No,” Sherlock barked before sighing and turning to meet John’s slowly focusing eyes. “I’m sorry for what happened back at the Ministry.”

John blinked and Sherlock watched as he tried to remember what Sherlock had been forced to Obliviate from his mind, “I don’t…” John’s eyes widened and finally fixed themselves onto Sherlock’s. “Did it work? The potion; did it work?”

Sherlock looked into John’s dark blue eyes and swallowed,  _ Yes, brother mine. _

John smiled triumphantly; a blinding grin full of teeth dirty from days of forgotten brushings, _ I know I’m several months late, but happy birthday, big brother. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for returning to read this small story.


End file.
